Evening Rain (a hero comes home)
by me malum
Summary: Alfred was scared of the rain when he was younger. Arthur's scared to fight for Alfred (again) now he's older. USUK fluff.


This was started maybe three years ago, when I was enjoying my USUK affair. I finally finished it today (unfortunately, this is fairly standard for me. I have so many unfinished ideas... but oh well).

**Disclaimer**- heh, I wish. I don't own Hetalia, 'Evening Rain' by Moby or 'A Hero Comes Home' from the Beowulf OST, all of which collaborated to inspire this fic.

**Warnings**- standard language warning for all my works, English spelling, teeth rotting fluff.

Enjoi.

* * *

_I can't stand... to see the morning come... while the evening rain's still falling._

* * *

It wasn't until Alfred was much older that he realised Arthur _didn't_ actually have a nice singing voice. When he was being tucked up in bed, with the storm outside (he hated the noise of the rain) and the fire roaring in the corner, Arthur's voice sounded deep, reassuring, _caring_. Then he'd get a pat on the head and a promise that he'd have company until he fell asleep.

It had been raining when he'd finally gained his independence. It was one of the things he couldn't forget about that day, no matter how everything else blurred and faded.

_Blink_

He's shouting across the gap between them; the no-man's land-

_Blink_

-and there's no space between them; when did Arthur get so close-

_Blink_

-it's out of his hands-

_Blink_

- When did Arthur kneel? Why didn't he shoot?

_Blink_

He'd never seen Arthur cry until that day. It was clear, even over the roar of the thunder and hiss of the lightning overhead. They weren't raindrops falling down the Englishman's cheeks; raindrops didn't leave one's face hung in his hands, or cause the muffled gasps of air that occurred when one tried to hold in his cries.

It was the hardest thing he'd done, physically forcing himself to turn away from the fallen figure and march back to his soldiers (_his_ countrymen, no longer subjects of _England_). He joined in with their raucous celebrations until he couldn't take it anymore, and excused himself to his quarters early into the parties.

The rain hadn't let up that afternoon, lasting well into the night; Alfred found himself humming his favourite tune quietly, trying to distract himself from it. He even tried singing under his breath, but realised that his consonants were too clipped and his vowels too short for the song to comfort him properly.

He missed Arthur terribly.

But he'd needed to do this. He needed the independence, the room to grow without someone looking over his shoulder and pointing out his mistakes.

He needed to learn to live with the rain, rather than be afraid of it.

Alfred took his head out from under the covers, sat up and closed his eyes, for once focusing on the sound rather than trying to ignore it.

_Pat patpatpat pat patpat patpat._

"It's practically a song in its own right," he whispered.

_I guess... when you actually take the time to listen... it's almost pretty..._

* * *

Arthur had always known that he had a horrible singing voice. He'd been told so enough times, most notably by Henry VIII, one drunken night before the whole church debacle. He also knew, however, that his stupid old folk songs had brought some measure of comfort to his new charge, who was so obviously afraid of his own shadow, never mind the storms, that Arthur had despaired of him ever being powerful (or brave) enough to hold his own territory.

While he sang, the child's eyes would peek out from above the blanket and stare, entranced, back at him. There was no fear, only wonder, and in those moments Arthur could see the bond between them growing stronger until the boy was more like his son rather than his colony. In those brief moments, his old war hurts seemed to fade into the background, forgotten until the blue eyes would glaze over and fall shut.

Even after Alfred had gone, (_seceded_, a small voice hissed in the back of his mind) the rain was a constant reminder of his presence. And English weather holding true to its reputation, it sometimes felt like Arthur did nothing _but_ think of the brat.

A fond smile wanted to escape. He brutally forced it back. He still hurt from _their_ war, even if France had dealt him far more severe blows in their history of battle.

Francis, the bloody frog, had never aimed at his heart like Alfred had. It took longer to recover.

Depending on when (_if_, that voice hissed) Alfred came back; Arthur had to wonder if it would take forever.

* * *

Alfred didn't know when, _hey, it's raining again_, had come to mean, _I wonder how Arthur's doing now?_ It had just- happened that way. One day he'd woken up, and 'rain' and 'Arthur' had become _synonymous_.

Heh. And Arthur thought he'd taught him nothing about grammar.

Alfred frowned. They'd spoken only recently, yet, they weren't really talking at all. It was the polite, cordial, 'How are you?' and the standard, 'Good thanks, and yourself?'. It was the kind of conversation that bare acquaintances would have, and he didn't want that to be them for the rest of their existence. They had never been 'mere acquaintances' in the first place. How could he make the Englishman talk to him?

Who was on good terms with the ever-prideful Mr Kirkland?

Alfred thought long and hard. No names occurred to him.

He feared the whole communication thing would take longer than he originally thought.

* * *

Approaching the Englishman when alcohol was close to hand was not his best plan. If Alfred let himself think about it, it probably ranked up there with his worst ideas, the ones he stuffed in the cupboard under the stairs and never revisited.

But Alfred was impatient and Arthur was there, alone and making steady progress through the real ales the bar had available on tap. He figured that this time, he wouldn't be ignored and shouldered past, at least.

"Hey, Arthur," was his opening gambit.

Arthur turned his head and glared at him with bloodshot eyes. "What do _you_ want?" he asked moodily.

The conversation did not improve from there. Drinks were drunk, and nations were drunker.

Alfred jumped to his feet, too annoyed to stick with his plan. "For the last two centuries, you've been telling me every variation of 'piss off' like you never want to see me again! Have you forgotten how hard you fought back then just to keep me by your side?"

Arthur slammed his pint glass down on the bar, and Alfred wondered if he'd just said something incredibly stupid. The Englishman looked enraged beyond words, but just managed to growl something out.

"And you've forgotten how hard _you_ fought to get away from me. Yet here you are like a yipping dog, trying to get my attention, to talk, to be _friends_ like nothing else ever happened. I ask you again, _what do you want_?"

But the inflection was off, Alfred noticed. When before, the emphasis had been on 'you', now it was on 'want'.

It was his chance to finally admit it. To say what he'd wanted to say every time before he'd been told to go away. But the words choked in his throat, wouldn't come out. He was left staring sadly at Arthur, unable to say _anything_.

"If you can't say it, I'll never listen." The Englishman stated the words as the obvious fact they were.

An uncomfortable silence fell, and Alfred was struck by the fact that far from anger, the emotion in green eyes was a mix of sorrow, pity and _please_. But before he could look deeper, _say something! Anything!_ Arthur blinked and looked away.

"Until you can say something, I'm going to keep telling you: piss off." The words were a warning this time. "Seeing as you can't manage that tonight, I'll do the honours myself."

And the Englishman picked up his coat, threw some money down for his drinks, and walked away.

Alfred watched him walk into the rain and saw Arthur tilt his head up, so the drops fell on his upturned face.

He looked away abruptly, unwilling to admit it was one of the most beautiful things he'd ever seen in his life.

* * *

Arthur was angry. Arthur might even call himself furious, irate. But most of all, Arthur was sad. He'd endured too many years of jokes from Gilbert and innuendo from Francis to accept things would never change, never go anywhere, but Alfred was being such a _bloody idiot_ about the whole thing, and Arthur couldn't see what could illuminate the American without his throwing all his cards into the open.

Arthur wasn't going to crawl back to Alfred and beg- he hadn't two centuries ago, and he had been considerably weaker then. Alfred had to want Arthur back, honestly, genuinely, want Arthur with him again-

-but he also had to know (to admit) why he wanted Arthur back.

Until he did, Arthur wasn't going to listen to anything the American had to say.

The evening's rain still pattered against his windows as dawn lightened the dark sky.

* * *

As had become his habit, when the thunder and lightning started up, Alfred opened his window wide and sat on the sill, watching the forks crash down and jumping when a bolt sounded louder than he expected.

He was morose after his failure of communication. For the first time, Arthur had given him a chance, and he froze. Why couldn't he say anything, this one time when it might have mattered?

He watched two forks join together as they flashed for a split second over the hill.

Considerably slower than the lightning, he had his grand revelation, and much more besides. Because- did Arthur _know_?

_What do you _want_?_

How could Arthur know? Because there was no doubt in Alfred's mind that he did- his inflection, so strange at the time, could mean nothing else, and apparently the Englishman was more perceptive than Alfred had ever given him credit for.

Why had Arthur never said anything? All of the chances they'd missed, every time Arthur had told him to piss off instead of telling him...

_If you can't say it, I'll never listen_.

Because Arthur learned from his past. Alfred's cruel words in the bar- Arthur had fought for Alfred once before, and lost. He would not make the same mistake; this time it was Alfred's turn to fight.

Alfred thought about how, for years now, he'd been trying to just _talk _with the Englishman again. He thought about now, when he wondered if only talking would be enough for him.

With a wry grin, he conceded that actions, rather than words, had always been his strong point.

He smiled at the storm, and laughed when he recalled how scared of it he had been as a child, and how Arthur used to sing him to sleep with old folk tunes.

His favourite had always been about the hero. "Just wait, though wide he may roam..." he half sang, half croaked in a voice that had never done much singing. He looked to the horizon, hiding the Atlantic Ocean and England beyond that.

"...always, a hero comes home."

* * *

Arthur wondered who in the hell would be out in the terrible weather when his doorbell rang.

Alfred grinned when the door opened, and pushed his sopping hair back from his glasses. "Evenin', Arthur." He'd affected his best cockney accent for the occasion, but the Englishman didn't seem to appreciate it at that moment, flying through confused and annoyed straight into fury.

"But- what're you even _doing _here?!" Arthur yelled. "Why can't you just leave me in fucking _peace_?" He stared up at Alfred, and refused to show how close he was to crying. Anger was better. Anger was comfortable. Anger was _safe_.

Alfred stepped out of the rain and gripped Arthur's shoulders lightly. He shook his head with a small, almost-bemused smile on his face. "I'm home," he simply said. "I'm finally home, Arthur."

Arthur shrugged his shoulders, but Alfred tightened his grip. "But- what?" he whispered, voice breaking. "What do you want?" Realisation sparked behind his eyes and he glared again. "You rejected _me _back_ then_. You don't get to wander back in just when you feel like it and-"

"I want-" Alfred started, only to be interrupted.

"No! You've had chances, _so many chances_, you can't come in now and-"

But Alfred was fighting now, and action was needed.

Arthur took a full second to realise he'd been cut off mid-sentence. It look three more to realise exactly what, or rather _how_, the American had shut him up.

Lips pushed forcefully against his, demanding action, reaction, _reciprocation_ as they moved insistently on his own.

Arthur did what he thought any sane country would do. As soon as his mind caught up with his body, he jerked his head back sharply and flung his arms out to either side to break Alfred's hold on him. He quickly took some steps back, eyes locked on the figure leaning up against the wall, panting for breath.

Arthur ignored the fact that he was breathing just as harshly. "What," he gasped out, "the _fuck-_" breathe in, out- "was _that_?"

Alfred's eyebrows rose as he gave a disbelieving huff. "It's called a _kiss_, Arthur," he drawled. "You might have heard of the concept?"

Arthur flushed. It wasn't only embarrassment colouring his face, he was sure anger was in there too. "Now that you mention it, I might recall something of the idea," he bit out. "More specifically then. What- the _fuck_- was that for?"

But Alfred just laughed, still not moving from his support. "I want _you_ with _me_, Arthur," he said, still with that sarcastic undertone, even though Arthur could tell he'd rarely been more serious. "Home is where the heart is." Suddenly, he shifted, taking Arthur's hurried steps back so there was barely a foot between them. "I've only just realised where mine's been all these years." His gaze fell to Arthur's lips, and he bent his head down; just a fraction, a declaration of intent.

Arthur was sure he'd never been so nervous in war. What was a battle to someone essentially immortal? But right there, closer than they'd ever been on the battlefield, he felt his pulse race uncontrollably. "Alfred-" he started, uncertain of how to continue. "Alfred, I-"

"Please," Alfred murmured. "Please, just don't send me away. Let me back, let me back in, don't leave, don't let _me_ leave again-"

Arthur reached up to cup the back of the American's neck, drawing their foreheads together. "You bastard," he said, equally softly. "All the time you took! Do you even know how many old wounds you're reopening now?"

Alfred's eyes sought, and held, Arthur's. "Then let me heal them with you, properly," he said. Simple. Matter of fact. _Honest_.

Arthur stared into the blue eyes from merely centimetres away. After what felt to them like an eternity, he tilted his head up just slightly. One corner of his mouth lifted, into what could perhaps be called a smile.

Alfred wasted no time on reassuring himself that Arthur had said _yes_, had let him back into his life, hopefully one day, his heart. He closed his eyes and bent his head down just slightly, and lost himself in the chance he'd finally taken.

* * *

The rain fell outside, gently echoing throughout the house.

_It can't last._ Arthur knew this, yet was loathe to disturb the tranquil afternoon with his question. He knew that it had to be asked, however, and sooner rather than later.

"So," he began softly, looking up from where he'd curled into Alfred's side. "When do you go home?"

Alfred made a questioning noise in the back of his throat without opening his eyes.

Arthur felt the faint stirrings of annoyance. "You know what I mean," he muttered. "You can't stay forever. When do you go back to America?"

Alfred made another unintelligible noise. Arthur hit him upside the head. Alfred immediately sat up, rubbing the spot where Arthur had slapped him and glaring slightly.

"I go back to America in two weeks," he said shortly.

Arthur blinked. They had longer than he'd expected... but still not as long as he'd hoped.

Alfred took in his silence, and continued, "I'll probably be there for three months at least. But then... hopefully soon after, I'll be coming _home_ again." He smiled at the emphasis of his words. "You aren't getting rid of me now."

Arthur would have hit him again, but Alfred caught his wrist in time. "Git," he instead mumbled affectionately, plan A subverted. "I didn't exactly kick you out the first time."

Alfred grinned sheepishly, suppressing a wince. "Yeah, I guess not," he agreed. He hugged Arthur closer to him, practically hauling the Englishman into his lap. "But I'm back. Your hero came home again, Arthur." Belying the mischief in his eyes, his facial expression didn't shift.

Arthur, on the other hand, looked torn between amusement and shock. "I cannot believe you just said that with a straight face."

They both laughed, and shared a brief but sweet kiss. "It's one of the many reasons you love me, regardless," Alfred explained, ostensibly joking. He didn't expect any kind of confession from the Englishman yet, no matter what _he_ might already have alluded to.

But Arthur smiled, and put a hand to his cheek. "Yeah, Alfred," he said. "It is."

Just short, and sweet, and simple.

Alfred's eyes widened, before a blinding grin broke out over his face.

Anything he might have said, however, was promptly drowned out by the thunder overhead.

* * *

_Just, wait, though wide he may roam_

_Always, a hero comes home._


End file.
